From
Fausto {the disgusting details and revolting portrait of an artist in heat circa 1962}

Fuck
I don’t want to know
what I know
The entire troupe is
Waiting for me,
Actually the other me and
He just couldn’t get out of
Bed.

My toes woke up first
Because they were
Curling the hair of
One of the dance boys
I picked up last night.
I peeked up and saw
My feet and three heads

Fuck him, they started
To say after they had
Gone through the fake
Worrying
Christoph came in late
And heard the noise
‘Oh Fausto? Nothing
happened
he picked up
Four guys on the
dancefloor at Dante’s last
Night and
He was cut of by choruses of
FUCK HIM
They are cursing me
And really they should be
Because I don’t have a
Thought in my head except
How to fuck and get rid
Of these three fig trees
In my bed.

Well when you fuck
Him you get fucked
Someone said
You know he writes
Poetry and he tries to recite
It during sex
All together now
FUCCCCCKKKHIIIIIII…

…well really I can’t
Hate myself even when
I hate myself because
I have to create and deal
With everybody and everything else
It’s a dream of life
That I once had
A living dream someone
Deserves, but perhaps not me
At this moment
But there it is.

Divertissement 1-

If then we are
If then
You made the
Rotting boards under
Our bed fall apart
Even and
We seemed to wallow in that
Dilapidation more
As time went by
The wetness and
Chantilly lace vestment
Laying over broken
Furniture
An offering
Cobalt accoutrement
Is just a shadow
Over the core of your
Being
An offering at this
Altar of lust
And I looked between
Your eyes into
This palace and
I’d press your
Shoulders with
My feet like I was
Penetrating the
the putrid beauty of
Heavenly Earth. I should hang out
At this end of the bed
More often, but I don’t feel
Anything. Oh Christ,
They are standing over
Me like Jason and
The fucking Argonauts
I can hear
What they are thinking.

The troupe breaks into
A chorus

Fuck him, Fuck him, Fuck him
Why would anybody
Go out with him
-Stays in with him you mean
-Well he’s great for the arts
Well is he really or has
He how shall we say it
Climaxed and it is all
Cleaning up the mess.
Fausto, rot in hell!

Tender apostles
With thy hand
Protect my journey
Light under thine steps
Invisible returns
The water at thy temples
Streaks off thy wings
Have heart
Sign infinity
En l’ air

Virgin foot
Aloft over carnage
passing the silence
Of the souls
Thigh not posed, really
To rest
Not doomed
Deity
excuent

‘Call the soul
Send forth
So you
Shall be redeemed
Fool thine gods
Not to be
Reap in nature’s
Love
Disengage’

Ok fellas, you can leave.